


The Couch at 221b

by ragnarthevikingcat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnarthevikingcat/pseuds/ragnarthevikingcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pure fluff about Molly relaxing and thinking</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Couch at 221b

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I ever wrote. It's old, but I'd love to hear feedback :)

Molly's mind was still reeling from the events of the last 12 hours. In them, she learned that Moriarty was returning, that Sherlock was returning, and, most shockingly, that Sherlock reciprocated her previously unrequited love for him. 

Sherlock was gone to Downing Street with John and Mycroft, and had left Molly alone with her thoughts in 221b Baker Street. Upon her arrival, Mrs. Hudson had brought up some tea and biscuits. Molly had pensively, almost as if she was operating on auto-pilot, poured the cuppa, but once it was poured, both it and the biscuits remained untouched. How could she possibly choke anything down right now? While her trim figure appreciated her inability to stress eat, it didn't provide her any comfort. 

In a desperate attempt to relax her wound-tight muscles, she quietly padded into the flat's only bathroom and turned the faucet on the deep tub to run herself a bath. She futilely rifled through Sherlock's cabinet for some bubble bath, knowing the improbability of her success. She did, however, smile to herself when she found several varieties of hair products, which confirmed her suspicion that Sherlock didn't maintain his perfectly coiffed hair without some sort of effort on his part. 

She quickly undressed, feeling terribly exposed when she remembered whose flat she was in. With her light brown hair piled messily on top of her head, she lowered herself into the tub, feeling her blood pressure drop almost instantly. Molly Hooper knew this was the one infallible method to calm herself down. Letting the piping hot water seep into her every pore, she consciously relaxed each part of her body, starting with the top of her head, finally making it to the tips of her toes. Once that exercise was complete, she tried to clear her mind completely, to have no thoughts in her head. That did not last long when it crossed her mind that a quiet brain had probably never occurred here since Sherlock took up residence. Bollocks. The thought of him was one of the very things she was trying to avoid. 

How could his eyes be two distinct shades of blue and green simultaneously? Is there anyone in the world whose hair was a more glorious shade of auburn? She doubted it. Then the real questions began. Did he mean what he said this morning? Why the sudden change? Was a relationship with a self-proclaimed sociopath really the best move on her part? A sardonic chuckle reverberated in her chest at that one. Yes, she had dated more than her fair share of sociopaths, but had never known it going into things. Deep down, she could hear her heart quietly whisper that Sherlock was simply guarded and definitely too intelligent for his own good, but if anyone knew he wasn't heartless, it was her. 

When Molly surfaced from her thoughts, she realized that the water had become tepid. She wrapped a towel around herself, and when she noticed the late hour, decided against putting her clothes back on. Since she had come here straight from St. Bart's, she had nothing but what was in her small purse. Which obviously did not include pajamas. Feeling slightly mischievous in the best possible way, she went to Sherlock's bedroom to search his closet for something comfortable to wear. Going through his things made her fee, like a child searching through the cupboards at Christmas time to find hidden gifts. Instead, she found a black undershirt and a pair of plaid boxers. The shirt smelled deliciously of Sherlock, like spruce with a faint undertone of chips. When she found the boxers, she could feel herself blush slightly at the thought of Sherlock wearing them, but the fact that they still the tag lessened the scandal of it in her mind. Molly's lips pursed with amusement at the idea of him buying pants. 

Once she had put on her newly acquired outfit, she contemplated her next move. Her heavy eyelids and increasingly ridiculous thoughts told her she needed sleep. But where? Sherlock's bedroom seemed the most obvious choice, but Molly wanted her first time in his bed to include him. Since John's old room held nothing but books and old case notes, the sofa was the only option she saw left. 

The state of disarray in the living room would have been distracting to Molly under any other circumstances, but right now it made Sherlock feel closer. Plopping down on the well-used brown leather sofa had the same effect, as it not only held imprints of its more frequent user, but also that user's undeniable scent mixed with a trace of cigarette smoke. Molly wrapped the thin but soft blanket she had stolen from Sherlock's bed around herself as she buried her head in the corner where the cushions met, facing away from the chaotically organized living space. 

As desperate for sleep as she was, Molly couldn't help but reflect on the more pleasant events of the day, most especially the confession and kiss from Sherlock. He had entered the morgue in a flustered state that could not ever remember seeing him in before. Without giving her a chance to greet him or sharing one of his own, he blurted "Moriarty faked his death like me. I don't know how, but he's back." 

"Yeah, everyone saw it on the telly."

"Well then don't you see what this means?" Sherlock demanded tersely. 

"You're going to figure out how he did it?" she ventured, unsure of herself. 

"Don't be stupid, Molly." He thrill of hearing him say her name was counteracted by the stupid he had put in front of it. He could wound her more easily than anyone she had ever met. "It means you are in very real danger."

"Sherlock," she cut him off, "I'm sure I can take care of myself."

At that, he rolled his eyes, "Do be realistic. You know Jim from IT. You don't know Jim Moriarty. I'm the only one capable of dealing with him and the only one who can protect you. And I can promise nothing is going to happen to you."

Molly furrowed her eyebrows and looked up through squinted eyes at Sherlock's face. She hadn't realized exactly how close he was until that moment. She could see every detail in his sculpted face. It only added to his beauty, though she made her best effort not to let him observe this, as useless as the attempt may be. "Why?" was the only reply she could muster. 

His expression was unreadable for several seconds. She could see his thoughts spinning, but found no clue as to what they might be. Then, his eyes became uncharacteristically soft, and there was a slow growing smirk at the corner of his Cupid's bow lips. "Is it really possible that you don't know? After all the time we have spent together, I thought you surely must know." He looked at her expectantly, but got only a confused stare in response. "Perhaps not," he surmised slowly. "In that case," he said as he took a step to close the already small gap between them, wrapping his long, pale fingers around her slender biceps through her lab-coat, "Molly, no other person I have ever known has been as patient or as useful to me as you. I have known for a long time that you fancy me, but I assumed it would pass as you and I became more well acquainted. You surprised me, Molly Hooper. You cared for me when I couldn't and wouldn't care for myself. You deserve better than me, but that doesn't change the fact of the matter. I love you."

Molly was speechless. Her eyes widened and heart began racing as the full meaning of his words crashed over her. She looked into his eyes for a hint that this might be one of his cruel tricks, but knew him well enough to surmise, as shocking as it was, that he was in earnest. "Do you?" she finally managed to ask in a small voice. 

His response was to pull her even closer look, deeply into her timid eyes, and place his full, soft, gentle lips on hers. It lasted on only a second, but Molly's brain screamed with excitement at the fruition of a much fantasized about event. She knew the fireworks going on behind her eyes had nothing to do with the intense lights of her workplace and everything to do with the man now holding her closer to him than she had ever dared hope. "I love you too, Sherlock," she breathed when she finally regained control of her thoughts. 

"Of course you do. It's obvious," Sherlock retorted in his usual, know-it-all way but with a much softer edge than what she had become accustomed to hearing. 

With that, he sent her quickly to his apartment via one of the many government cars Mycroft had at his disposal and told her to wait for him there while they sorted a few things out. Still in a stupor, she quickly agreed and asked no further questions. 

Lying on his sofa now, she couldn't help but wonder if what had transpired had been true. Maybe he was just reeling from being taken so quickly out of exile, or maybe this was part of an elaborate plan. Had she not been on his sofa in his clothes, she would have doubted if it had even actually happened. With, such thoughts as those swirling in her head, Molly finally fell into a much-needed sleep. 

Sunrise was just starting to make faint appearance behind the thin, dusty curtains when a shift in the cushions and the feeling of someone's body against hers roused Molly from her slumber in a state of mild panic. As soon as she remembered where she was and realized who was with her, though, a peaceful smile spread across her face. Sherlock's thin frame fit closely but comfortably alongside hers on the couch, but his height required him to bend himself around her. With one of his arms underneath the crook of her neck and the other draped across her waist, Sherlock held Molly tightly. The entire backside of her body was on fire at the sensation of being so completely surrounded by him. When she felt a soft kiss on her temple and felt him bury his face in her neck and hair, finally landing his face on hers so that they were cheek to cheek, she knew he had meant what he said to her earlier. For once, she knew something certain about Sherlock Holmes. She knew she loved him. And she knew she was drifting back to sleep in the arms of the man who loved her back.


End file.
